


Stilettos and Fisticuffs: A Postscript

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barroom Brawl AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:51:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: “I slapped him. Yes. No.” The woman sitting behind him on the phone sounds exasperated. There’s nothing he can do until the cop comes back with his coffee or doughnut or whatever it was he had wandered off to find, so he turns in his chair and watches her.





	Stilettos and Fisticuffs: A Postscript

**Author's Note:**

> Slapping a pretentious title on an old WIP while I keep trying to finish up a couple of other things.
> 
> Mentions of (minor) violence and blood.

“I slapped him. Yes. No.” The woman sitting behind him on the phone sounds exasperated. There’s nothing he can do until the cop comes back with his coffee or doughnut or whatever it was he had wandered off to find, so he turns in his chair and watches her.

Her head is bent low, warm dark hair hiding her face from view. Her shoulders rise and then slump. She makes a frustrated noise and then slams the phone down. A moment later she’s laughing. All right then.

He’s turning back in his chair when she glances over at him. She’s looking at him so intently he wonders if he’s said something and he hadn’t realized.

“He wasn’t a friend of yours was he?” She asks, the laugh ending with a half suppressed smile. “I should feel horrible I know, but I wasn’t even able to stomp on his foot. I’ve heard stilettos can be dangerous in that regard.”

He looks down at her feet half tucked under the desk and finds himself lost in the expanse of her legs. Long and slender, they’re seemingly endless. When he manages to look up she’s watching him curiously. 

“I decked a guy in a bar.” He explains without apology. “He suggested something about me I didn’t agree with. I shouldn’t have. I’m going to have hell to pay if it hits the papers.”

She raises her eyebrows, curious giving way to quizzical. “I don’t know you. I’m not an expert. You are a celebrity aren’t you?”

She falls silent and he takes a moment to quell the urge to chuckle before responding. “I work for the government. I’m not some big hotshot. There’s no money in selling a story about me. Doesn’t mean my boss would like the publicity though.”

“Oh.” She looks suddenly alarmed. “Oh no, I would never. You don’t think I would, do you?”

“Do what?” He’s at a loss here, but he’s not finding it nearly as irritating as he normally does. She’s two steps ahead of him, still rambling and he hasn’t thought once about trying to stop her.

“I write for the paper. Mac McHale-”

“The MacKenzie McHale?” He interrupts whatever spiel she has half planned. “You write for The Times. That paper?” He lets the corner of his mouth twitch up into a half smile. “Your integrity speaks for itself.”

“You read my work?” She seems surprised by this and he wonders why. Could it be that he’s the one muddling things up, or is she honestly clueless.

“Every word. That piece you wrote last year on political shifts within the Russian public was phenomenal and the forward to _Hyperinflation in the Weimar Republic: The Economics of Post-World War I Germany_ ,” he shrugs when he sees a bit of pink creep up from the neckline of her blouse. “It was perfect.”

“Are you-? I don’t mean to sound crazy but no one’s read that book, no one-”

Will?” The voice behind him is familiar, one he places immediately when he looks back over his shoulder. “Sloan.”

“You two know each other?”

“Apparently. Play nice.” He warns but there’s no force behind his words. “I’ve spent the better part of twenty minutes confusing poor MacKenzie. Dry wit-”

“If you don’t shut up I’ll slap you too and stomp on your foot.” Mac cuts in, all memory of his previous flattery seemingly forgotten. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“She would,” Sloan agrees, still standing over his shoulder. “What are you doing here? You haven’t switched sides on me have you?”

“No.” Will sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m still with the DAs. Well, I was when I left work at five.”

“What the hell did you do, murder someone? Can’t you just wave that shiny Bar Association card around?”

“There may have been a congressman involved.”

“You punched a congressman?” Mac sounds incredulous. Sloan seems unimpressed.

“I knocked him out actually. I think I may have broken his nose. It was rather ugly. Blood everywhere. I’m expecting a bill when they refinish the floors.”

“Where?”

“India House.”

“Oh shit.”

He hums noncommittally. It hadn’t been a particularly smart move, starting a fight in one of New York’s oldest gentleman’s clubs.

“They’re going to-”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m waiting for someone to bail me out so my humiliation can begin.”

“I could maybe,” Sloan shrugs. “If you don’t mind sharing a cab with Mac. I have to be up again in about five hours. I teach first thing.”

“Well,” he shrugs. He figures MacKenzie will be making good on her threat to beat on him before they reach the end of the block, but he didn’t relish the thought of spending the rest of the night here either. He needed time to go home and shower before he was raked over the coals. 

“That’s fine.” Mac cuts in before he can finish. “Just don’t get us in any more trouble in the process.”


End file.
